


Advent III

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:52:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Mycroft opens up the family estate, Sherlock endures his repulsive brother's repulsive joy...unaware that romance and happiness are contagious.</p><p>Fluff. Fun. Happy Advent, bubbehlehs. XD</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent III

Mycroft is a tenor—not an exceptionally good one, but not vile, either, Sherlock has to concede. Given a large enough bucket and an expansive enough melody, Mycroft could carry the tune. That doesn’t make things any easier for Sherlock. He’d forgotten this version of Mycroft—deleted it, he supposed. Big Brother, bumbling about the family estate like a bumble bee, a dumbledore, a rumbling, bumbling, humming one-man hive of seasonal joy. The smiles were unnerving enough, as were the relaxed country outfits Mycroft was wearing here at the estate: corduroy pants and moleskin weskits, tweedy hacking jackets and God be merciful, paddock boots… But the songs….

“Hark the herald angels shout, ‘Three more days till we get out! Three more days, till we are free from this penitentiary!’ Grab your balls and grab your chains, run like hell to the nearest trains! Hark the herald angels shout, ‘Three more days, till we get out!’” Mycroft’s reedy tenor firms up, gains resonance, and he bells the lyrics out, making a joyful noise unto the lord.

Sherlock hadn’t heard those lyrics since the lead-up to the Christmas hols back at Harrow. He could hear it, now, in memory: boys racing through the hallowed halls singing it at the top of their lungs, gamboling like young goats, kicking their heels, leaping high to tag the Christmas bunting that decorated the doors into the class rooms.

He could just remember Mycroft coming to get him from the lower forms, ready to take him home. He’d check Sherlock’s bag to make sure he’d packed everything he needed, and double-check to be sure his hair was combed and his face washed, and the whole time he’d be singing that under his breath. “Hark the herald angels shout, ‘No more days till we get out!’” He’d carry the two suitcases down to the van that would take them to the train station, Sherlock jogging behind clutching his violin case and trying not to act too excited, because it wasn’t cool to be as excited as Mycroft was.

“We’re going home,” Mycroft would murmur into Sherlock’s ear, as they sat on the back bench of the van. “We’re going home for Christmas.”

Only they weren’t going home, Sherlock would think, scowling. They weren’t going to Mummy and Father’s place in the Dower House, but to the Big House, which Father had opened up for the season.

“People expect it of the family,” Father said. “It’s a tradition.”

Mycroft loved traditions, and he adored the Big House. He was enchanted by the big old Elizabethan staircase with its paneling and its fretwork and the foyer with its oak parquet. He loved the Great Hall and the stained glass windows. He loved the lawns and the acres of field and woodland. He loved the home farm. He even loved the party, though the afternoon before he’d make himself so tense he’d sometimes throw up in the bathroom, secretly, just from the excitement. Mycroft would stand beside Father, face sober, and shake hands with each of the guests. When he was old enough, Father would let him announce the party properly begun, and gesture for the band to play and the dancers to take to the floor.

Sherlock hated it. He wanted to go home to the Dower House, as they did for Easter and the summer hols. He wanted Mummy to hover over him and cluck that he was much too thin, and what were they thinking of letting him starve away to nothing? He wanted to go racing the familiar fields with Redbeard. He wanted his own room, and his own things, and he hated Christmas—just hated it.

Now, grown, he watched his brother and scowled darlkly under strong black brows.

“Do stop that blatting,” he grumbled. “You’re neither a schoolboy nor an opera singer, and nothing less justifies the torment you’re inflicting on those around you.”

“Ah, but you’re different,” Mycroft said, eyes shining. “You’re both my baby brother _and_ a highly questionable operative currently on probation by her Majesty’s grace alone. I’m allowed to torment you—indeed, encouraged. Consider it an enhanced interrogation technique.”

Ye gods and little fishes. Mycroft was sparkling. Seriously, seriously sparkling.

“You’ve clearly lost it,” Sherlock groused. “Why do we have to have Christmas here? Why not at Mummy and Father’s, like last year?”

“Perhaps because I don’t want anything else to turn out like last year,” Mycroft said, temporarily grim and determined. “This way I have at least some control over what goes into the punch.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That only shows how little credit you give me for creative improvisation.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Don’t. Do not even think it. Don’t _dare_ , William Sherlock Scott Holmes. If you even think about it, I’m telling Mummy.”

Sherlock smirked. “Tattle-tale.”

“Trouble maker.”

“Fuss budget.”

“Prat.”

“Well, now that we’ve got that cleared up, what about a bit of lunch,” Lestrade said, striding into the library. He’d clearly been out walking—his cheeks were pink, as was his nose, and the wool of his jacket had been misted by the fog.

If Sherlock had thought Mycroft already shining with Christmas cheer, it was nothing compared to the quiet smile he turned on his partner. “Shepherd’s pie and a Waldorf salad in the breakfast room,” he said. “And I had several barrels of beer and ale brought up from the microbrewery you like so well.”

Lestrade grinned, and Sherlock sighed. The two were dopey—worse than John and Mary, who both tended to cover their infatuation with sark and teasing. While Mycroft and Lestrade could banter, and did, it was more often something they directed out toward the world outside their own charmed circle. The teasing they did between themselves was sweeter and more tender, and it made Sherlock want to gag.

“Joining us, little brother?” Mycroft asked. “There are sliced meats and bread, if you don’t want the shepherd’s pie. And there’s a lovely bowl of Clementines out on the sideboard.”

“In a minute,” Sherlock muttered, bending over his tablet and pretending to be far too occupied in research to get up.

“We’ll be there whenever,” Mycroft said. “When are John and Mary and the baby due?”

“This evening,” Sherlock said. Then, in the most offhand manner he could manage, he said, “Do you mind if someone else joins us?”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Not that dreadful Wiggins, I hope? I’m not having any chemical events this Christmas, Sherlock. I won’t stand for it.”

“No, just one of John and Mary’s set,” Sherlock said. “I told them I’d pass on the invitation.”

Mycroft huffed and grumbled, but agreed, and then he and Lestrade were off to the breakfast room, with only Mycroft’s tenor trailing behind, still singing, “No more days till we are free from this penitentiary! Hark, the herald angels shout, ‘No more days till we get out!’”

Sherlock slipped the phone from his pocket, and waited for it to connect. Then he said, “Yeah. Yeah—me. How’s Sussex? Yeah? Good. Good. Look—Big Brother’s doing Christmas, and John and Mary and the baby are going to be at the family place, and we thought maybe you’d like to join us. Yeah.” He blushed. “No. No, it wasn’t something they made me do. It was my own idea, all right? I just thought…” He paused, and said, voice suddenly wheedling and sly, “There’s going to be dancing. Mycroft’s opening the place up, just like the old days, and there’s dancing. I thought, well…. I always promised I’d show you how.”

It was as well there was no one there to see his face light up a moment later.

“Yeah. Yeah—I’ll send you directions. How soon do you think you can make it up? Oh—just south of London. Hardly any distance at all.” He smiled, and said, “Yes. I’ll meet you at the station tonight, then.”

When he hung up, he was still smiling, and when he rose and walked down the hallway to the little breakfast room, he was singing in a deep, rumbling baritone that verged on bass, sounding more like a bumblebee than even Mycroft had. “We’re Walking on the Air” is especially haunting when sung by a deep, resonant voice—and it’s not made any less charming when the singer pirouettes lightly on his way down the corridor, eyes shut, imagining a woman in his arms.

Sherlock was already planning on sending back down to London for his white tie and tails.


End file.
